


Two Beds and a Coffee Machine

by etcetera_kit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:35:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etcetera_kit/pseuds/etcetera_kit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets from the relationship of Castiel, the Righteous Man, and Dean, the angel who rebels to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Beds and a Coffee Machine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [capsicleonyourleft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capsicleonyourleft/gifts).



> Happy holidays, ionchannel! I’m sorry that this isn’t a story that fits into one of your prompts, but I loved the campaign prompt! I hope to get something for that soon. I hope you enjoy this anyways.

**Two Beds and a Coffee Machine**

Winter. The world was still dark when he stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom. He couldn’t even say what woke him, other than an itchy feeling under his skin, telling him to _move_ and _be alert_ , like he couldn’t waste even a moment more than necessary on something like sleep, something that left him so vulnerable.

At this hour, he assumed that Rachel was still in her room. Or not.

Lately, he’d been unable to track his little sister or even guess what she might do.

The harsh fluorescent lights in the bathroom threw into sharp relief the dark smudges under his eyes, the five o’clock shadow that was slowly veering into scraggly beard territory, and how pale he’d gotten. Too many nights spent roaming graveyards and not enough time in the sun.

Oh well, he’d be able to sleep when he was dead, or after they’d stopped the Apocalypse. But probably only when he was well and truly dead, left in Hell or Heaven to rot for all eternity, and not be the Righteous Man, the hammer the angels would use to bring about the end of the world, or the bargaining chip that every demon wanted.

He quickly brushed his teeth and decided to leave shaving for another day.

His phone was flashing at him when he walked back into the bedroom. Four text messages, all from the same person.

He really regretted teaching that damn angel how to text.

_Hey Cas_ , one of the texts started, _you awake?_

Seeing as the message had been received at 2 a.m., no.

_I guess you’re sleeping. Let me know where you are when you wake up._

_I think I found a case for you._

_I’ll bring back some beer from Germany._

The latter especially annoyed him—he had no interest in alcohol of any kind. He’d seen too many hunters succumb to alcoholism. The stuff dulled their senses and left them vulnerable to attack. Some, including the angel, would say that he was a prude or paranoid. But paranoia had saved his life and Rachel’s on more than one occasion, so he’d take the names.

And why was that ridiculous angel finding cases for him?

_He fell for you. Died for you. You owe him more than your irritation_ , a little voice in the back of his head piped up. And the voice was right. The angel had broken with his garrison and stopped following orders in a last ditch effort to stop the breaking of the final seal. He’d been too late to stop Rachel in the end, and they’d spent the last few months mopping up the mess from the Apocalypse. But the angel, he’d died and been brought back, but cut off from Heaven, so he was slowly falling and becoming human. He’d also hidden them from angels, so even he couldn’t find them without directions.

The angel was far from useless, just a little too into beer, classic cars, women and pie.

His phone rang.

Letting out a long breath, he answered the call.

“Hello Dean.”

\-------------------------

The angel was drunk. Castiel was not even sure how that was possible. According to Rachel, Dean drank an entire liquor store. Since connection with the outside world, including Internet and cell phones had been cut in this town, he couldn’t verify that Dean had, indeed, drained an entire liquor store. The angel was still fairly tipsy, eyes having trouble focusing on anything. (Except for Castiel’s crotch—which the angel seemed to be fixated on. And that was all he needed—for Dean to have a ridiculous crush on him. They had to save the world and the angel was horny. Figured.)

They had just recruited the local pastor to help them kill the Whore of Babylon. He was in the motel room with Rachel, who was giving him the run-down on their spectacularly bad plan.

_“She has to be killed by a servant of God,”_ Dean had said. _“Not you. Or me. Rachel, of course, is fucking abomination as far as those dickweeds are concerned.”_

Dean was sitting in the bed of the truck, one arm on the side, head pillowed on his arm. He looked like the dictionary definition of a hangover. Cas rolled his eyes and grabbed the bottle of aspirin from his bag. He rounded the truck and threw the bottle at Dean. The angel caught it easily.

“Thanks.” Dean winced as he sat up. “I mean, I love alcohol, but I’ve never had a hangover before.” He squinted at the bottle. “How much should I take?”

Castiel snorted. “You? Down the bottle.”

He sat down next to Dean in the truck bed.

“What are we doing?” he asked softly.

Dean gave him a sidelong glance. “Killing a whore.”

Cas let out a long breath. “No, I mean— _this_.” He tried for a large gesture and failed. “Why are we even trying to stop any of this?”

Dean was silent, just scrutinizing him under that ancient green-eyed gaze. The angel looked like a young man in his prime to all appearances, but the freckles and spiky hair was deceptive. He was older than time and, in those quiet moments, the weight of all the years seemed etched clearly on his face.

“There never was any hope,” Castiel continued. “We’re all going to die.”

The angel actually chuckled at that. Cas gave him a sharp glance. Dean’s expression was grim, but with an almost-smile. “Yeah, but we’ll go down swinging.”

Cas stared at him. “Do you regret any of this?”

Dean returned his gaze, expression surprised. “Falling? Being with you? Fuck no.” He smiled sadly. “Humans are messy and chaotic, and I love them. My brothers are complete assholes who can’t see the perfection in that. They want mindless automatons.” He paused. “I’d rather be with humans. I guess that’s why I’m still helping you.”

Castiel returned the mournful smile. “Doesn’t change that we’re going to die.”

“No,” Dean replied. “It doesn’t. But I always liked the long odds.”

\-------------------------

Castiel couldn’t remember much about the last few months. His little sister was dead and gone, and he didn’t even have a body to bury. She came up with a stupid plan and ended up locked in Hell. How was he supposed to be happy they won? They’d averted the Apocalypse, kept humanity in all its humiliating chaos. And how in the world was he supposed to be happy?

_“We beat the bad guys, Cas, and got what we wanted—no peace, no perfection, just more of the same old crap.”_

_“Rachel’s dead!”_

_“Cas, Rachel made her choice.”_

_“She’s my sister, I promised our father—“_

_“Your father knew that Rachel was capable of so much. Why would you try to rewrite that particular history?”_

_“Dean—“_

_“Cas, what do you want?”_

_“What do you want?”_

Dean had shrugged at that point in time. 

_“Heaven will be in chaos. They’ll need someone upstairs to help rebuild.”_

_“I thought you wanted to stay here.”_

_“I do. And I will.”_

_“What am I supposed to do?”_

_“Timeshare? Brewery tour? Go visit the Bacardi factory in Puerto Rico.”_

Dean picked the worst times to be less than unhelpful.

But Rachel had a back-up plan—she always did. Through a series of unfortunate events, he’d reunited with an old girlfriend a few years ago. Meg had always been difficult to deal with, but enjoyed partying and dancing. Hell, _he’d_ managed to pick her up in a bar, and he couldn’t pick up women in bars. Rachel wanted him to go to Meg.

He’d chosen solitude.

And he never did tell Rachel that he never wanted a normal life—he wanted Dean. But the angel was back in Heaven, cleaning up someone else’s mess. Hell, every time he saw beer or pie, he thought of the damn angel who’d rather chase human women than look twice at him. Stupid, fucking… angel. And he couldn’t look at the food again since Dean… 

Castiel opened the door to his apartment—before hunting full-time, he’d studied ancient languages, and managed to find a job translating ancient texts. He spent all day in a dark room, hunched over scraps of parchment. Dark when he went to work and dark when he returned, he almost felt like that was a metaphor for his life.

He stumbled into the apartment and stopped.

On the table was a slice of apple pie, still steaming with warmth, and a cold beer from somewhere in Germany, judging from the label. Castiel shut and locked the door. He dropped his bag in the hall and stepped into the one-room apartment. The pie was on one of his plate and the beer was cold, just beginning to drop condensation onto the table. Weird, that Dean thought of the plate. (More likely, the angel didn’t bring one with him and had to use the resources available to him.)

The angel, himself, was nowhere to be seen.

He didn’t know where the angel was or what kind of shit he’d gotten himself into in Heaven, but the bastard was still looking out for him.


End file.
